The Dragontail Warlord
by TinShadowcat
Summary: Desperate to right the wrongs against his people, an Orcish warlord leads a campaign against the Imperials. As his legion collapses around him, Mul gro-Gortwog must find a way to regroup with his shattered forces and lead a final push against a decadent Empire.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

Mul rode his faltering horse down the winding trails of the Colovian highlands, a mass of heavily armored Orcs following close behind. "Stop here for a minute. I smell Imperials," he ordered. He heard the expected grunts of displeasure as he stepped down from his steed and drew his axe. "Durza, Kresh. You're with me."

Durza was a young warrior, eager for action. "When are we going to end this skulking? Hiding didn't win us the Dragontails from the Bretons."

Quiet. I hear hooves." Mul took cover behind a nearby boulder, signaling to Durza and Kresh to do likewise. "Right on schedule. I knew Dulfish would deliver for us." He saw the top of a chainmail helmet start to bob over the horizon. "Durza, go get the others. It's time."

Mul remained where he was, feeling his familiar rage bubbling inside of him as he prepared himself for combat. So many injustices towards his people over the years, finally to be set straight...

He heard the thundering of 350 pairs of Orcish boots readying for battle. As he peeked over his boulder, he saw the great oak of Chorrol emblazoned on the shields of the scouts. "All right, Kresh. Once the first horses pass me, we cut their hocks. After they're down, we'll all rush the main force. This will be easy, there's no more than 50 of them." He eyed the hills behind him, searching for any visible signs of his force. Only the head of his horse could be seen. "They won't see us until it's too late."

Kresh drew his sword. "Let's wet our blades, shall we?"

"For Gortwog," Mul affirmed. The hooves drew closer as the Imperial stench grew heavier. Mul adjusted his grip on his axe.

As soon as the first scouts passed his boulder, Mul lashed out, blood spurting as the screams of horses filled the air. Kresh had been no less effective. "Orcs!" the guard captain screamed.

Mul's own shouts melded with the cries of his men as he led the charge towards the main Imperial platoon. "Butcher them all! Leave none alive!"

Imperial blood splattered the battlefield as Mul and Kresh hacked their way through the lion's share of the soldiers. Many of his warriors never drew their blades, the battle having ended before they could even take the field. Mul's eyes scanned the dead, satisfied to find none of his own among them.

"Well done," Mul turned to address the eager crowd of Orcs behind him. "The more we kill now, the fewer pale-skins to hack apart in the city. Their forces are thinned, and now it is time to attack! Today, we take back what is rightfully ours! To Chorrol!" The raucous band echoed his cry, eager for more bloodshed.

No sooner had the words left his lips than did a surge of heavily armored Imperials spill over a nearby hill, their numbers beyond counting. "Dammit, a trap! How did they know we were coming? Everyone, on your feet!"

The clash of steel filled the air as Imperials and Orcs met with lethal intent. "I want the leader alive!" the Imperial commander shouted, his ornate armor glinting in the sunlight.

Mul slashed with a devilish glee, fire burning in his eyes. Scores of men were downed in an instant on both sides. However, it became immediately clear that the outnumbered Orcs had met their match. The heavy-limbed bodies of his forces were falling just as rapidly as those of the Imperials, their crimson blood staining the hilltops. Mul's sharp eyes assessed the battlefield, finding that too few of his people were left standing. There was no victory to be found here. "There are too many! Fall back! Fall back!"

As Mul turned to retrieve his horse, he heard a high-pitched whirring sound followed by a solid metallic thump. He lay on his back, stars filling the daytime sky.

As his eyes refocused, he saw Durza standing over him, his mouth forming unheard words. As he extended his arm to help the warlord to his feet, an Imperial sword rammed through his chest. "No!" Mul croaked, the blood of his protégé staining his skin. The Imperial commander placed his foot on the chieftain's neck, Durza's lifeless body sliding off his weapon.

"Mul gro-Gortwog...if only you knew how long I've waited for this moment." His sword flashed in the air, Durza's blood a stark red against the grey steel. There was a second's relief as the boot left the Orc's throat before a sharp kick to the side of the head rendered Mul unconscious with finality.

AN: Well, here's my first attempt at a story as the main author. I've previously done some co-authoring work with Kainen-no-Kitsune, so if you're liking what you're reading, you can see more over on her profile, namely in the latter chapters of Dovah to Dovahkiin. Kit's also my beta for this story, so big thanks to her for putting in the effort to turn my scribbles into a cohesive chapter. I'm thinking of doing a roughly weekly upload schedule for this story, depending on how many chapters I can churn out and the response to them. Any constructive criticism is more than welcome, and thank for the read! See y'all next week!


	2. Chapter 2: A Fork in the Road

Mul awoke to the smells of mold and rotting flesh. He opened his blood-crusted eyes and was immediately blinded by the sunlight streaming in through a rusted iron bar window. Unsteadily rising to his feet with the assistance of the lone chair in his tiny room, he quickly realized that he was in some kind of prison cell. He stumbled towards the barred iron door, grasping it for support. As he looked up, he found a dark-skinned elf staring at him from a nearby cell. "You! Elf! Tell me where we are!"

The Mer laughed at the Orc's meager attempts to intimidate him. "By the Nine Divines, you're an ugly one. Aren't Orcs supposed to be strong? Ha! You must be the one Orc weakling, captured by the Imperials. The guards drug you in a few days ago. Whatever you did, you must've really ruined someone's day." The elf clung to the bars of his cell, straining to see Mul as he leaned against the gate. His face contorted into an ugly sneer as he continued to taunt the Orc. "I hope you ate a horse or something before you came in; they don't feed us down here. Maybe you'll get lucky and attract some rats. Filthy Orc…."

Mul stewed quietly for a moment, struggling to keep his composure. The elf clearly felt safe behind iron bars. If only he knew what an Orcish berserker was capable of…nonetheless, trying to convince the arrogant fool of that would get him nowhere. "No food? By the Gods! Did they bring any others with me? Were there any more Orcs?"

"No, just you. They probably slit your friends' throats like the pigs they are. You might think you're the lucky one; let's see how you feel in a week or two." The heavy clang of a door opening hushed their conversation.

Mul counted four pairs of footsteps; three marching in sure strides, and the fourth in a faltering drag. As the group passed his cell, he immediately recognized one of the faces in front of him. Kresh! Kresh nodded his grim recognition towards his captured commander as he was shoved into a cell neighboring Mul's. "Good…we can work with this," Mul thought.

After the guards accompanying Kresh had left, they began conversing in their native Orcish. This kept the haughty elf from overhearing their plans and tattling to save his own skin.

Several hours of deliberating (and nervous pacing from the elf) passed before Mul and Kresh had finalized their plan. They would escape at the next nightfall. The lengthy wait proved the elf's taunting to be true: time ticked by without any sign of life aside from the trio of prisoners.

As dusk approached, Mul and Kresh readied themselves for action.

Unexpectedly, the dungeon door opened again. Another four pairs of footsteps marched down the stairs, more urgent than the last arrival. The orcs watched from their cells anxiously, hoping to find another fallen comrade with which to escape. The over-dressed Imperial who passed in front of Mul's cell was no less than the Emperor himself, Uriel Septim VII, accompanied by three heavily armed guards.

Mul's face contorted in anger. Here, right within his reach, was the cause of all of his people's problems. This man was the figurehead that the Imperials rallied behind, and if only these bars weren't in the way he would be able to snap his frail little neck. Unfortunately, the guards, the Emperor's Blades, would kill him long before he ever managed to break through the door. Mul's curiosity had also been aroused. Things obviously weren't as idyllic as they appeared within the Empire. The guards' faces were shadowed with worry, while the Emperor's bore the resignation of certain defeat.

The Emperor stopped directly in front of Kresh's cell. "Dammit," Mul thought, "Surely they don't know of our plans. Who else would know Orcish in the Imperial palace?"

"Through this cell, sire. It's the only way out of here," a red-skinned guard explained. The group paused, surprised to find a form within the cell. They deliberated for a moment before stepping into Kresh's cell. "Stand back, prisoner. I'll gut you myself if you make a move."

"Keep calm, Kresh," Mul reassured in Orcish. "Don't tell him anything."

The Emperor spoke, his sonorous voice resonating through the dungeon. "Wait…by the Gods…I know this Orc. Come here, Orsimer. Let me see your face."

Kresh stepped forwards cautiously, his curiosity overcoming his distrust of Imperials. As the Emperor peered into his eyes, he suddenly felt much calmer, as if warm waters were flowing around him. "You will come with us. What is your name?"

He struggled to regain his clarity of mind, pushing back the waters. "Kr…Durza. Durza gro-Franz."

"Very well then, Durza. Stay close to us and you'll be safe." The Breton woman made a sound of protest that was quickly silenced by a glance from the Emperor.

"I don't understand," stated Kresh. "Why would you let me escape?"

"The Empire needs you, Durza. You hold the key to its salvation. I will die today, but you will carry my torch, my amulet, to my heir."

The Redguard interrupted. "You're not dying, sire; you're surrounded by the finest Blades in Cyrodiil. Now let's go."

"No," the Emperor commanded. "The Orc comes with us. Without him the Empire will fall. I have seen it in my dreams."

"Fine, but he stays in the back. We're not dodging these hooded assassins just so you can get your brains bashed in by some green-skinned prisoner." Uriel nodded before stepping out of view, further into Kresh's cell. Kresh looked uncertain, glancing to his leader for confirmation.

"Go, Kresh," Mul advised in Orcish. "Find Dulfish gro-Orum in Cheydinhal. He will give you shelter until I find you. Good luck, friend."

"Quiet over there, Orc," the guard shouted, his voice laced with bitterness. "We can't release ALL the scum in Cyrodiil."

With that, the Emperor and his entourage left the cell through its back exit, leaving Mul and the elf to themselves once again.

AN: Thanks again for the read; I'm really excited for what I have planned for the next few chapters. I know a lot of y'all aren't crazy about OC-led stories, but I appreciate all of the views I'm getting. Again, feel free to leave constructive reviews; it's the best way to help me grow as an author. I'll see you guys next week!


	3. Chapter 3: Turning the Wheel

Mul sat against his cell wall, considering his options. The escape plans would still work, but what of Kresh? The Emperor seemed convinced of Kresh's destiny and the Blades wouldn't dare cross his wishes, but if these "hooded assassins" were to kill the man, what stops the guards from slitting the prisoner's throat? Kresh was a great warrior, but even Gortwog couldn't kill three of the Emperor's personal guards with his bare hands.

"Enough of this, it's time for action," Mul muttered to himself. He knew what he had to do. He would stick with the plan: he needed to get supplies then head to Cheydinhal. Maybe Burz gro-Khash could help him back to his feet.

As Mul rose to his feet, the dark elf motioned towards him dismissively. "Sit down, goblin-kin. There's no escape from here." Mul ignored him, grabbing the lone wooden table in the room and placing it under his cell's barred window. The wood was rotten and splintered, but it didn't have to hold up long for him to escape. The Orc stepped onto the table, shifting his weight from foot to foot to ensure his table wouldn't collapse. He gripped a rusted bar in each hand, channeling all of his strength into breaking them. He felt his familiar rage tightening his muscles as his effort increased. The elf was becoming interested in his efforts, but remained sitting in the back of his cell.

Just as the bars began to give way, Mul felt the table give out from underneath him. The rotten wood could no longer hold under his weight; the table collapsed in a heap with a wet cracking noise. Mul fell to the floor with a solid thud, rot softened shards of wood scattering around the cell. He sat up before looking down at the bars still clutched in each hand, releasing them to clatter to the floor. The bars had collapsed in on themselves; they were rusted almost all the way through. He rose to his feet, allowing himself a satisfied grin as he dusted himself off. "Well, that's half the job done."

The elf was now visibly agitated, realizing the Orc's escape was imminent. "Guards! Guards! Someone's escaping!" There was, of course, no answer.

Mul gripped the shackle chains hanging from the ceiling, lifting himself off the ground by them slowly. Once level with the window, be began kicking his feet to swing the chain, flinging himself towards the window once his momentum was sufficient. He caught onto the window ledge by his fingertips, scrambling for a more firm grip before quickly pulling himself through the window as the frantic elf screamed for someone to contain him.

Once in the open, Mul leaned against the massive stone wall of the prison, temporarily blinded by the sunlight. He once again thought through his plan. Before he could make way for Cheydinhal, he desperately needed weapons and supplies. An inn would work fine for the supplies, but if the forests of Cyrodiil housed even a fraction of the dangers of those of the Dragontails, he would never survive the night without weapons and armor. He would surely be captured if he went into the Imperial City, and he definitely didn't have time to go to another town. Mul peered towards the setting sun; he was rapidly running out of daylight. He resolved to make towards the inn before nighttime; his weapons situation would have to wait.

Mul vaguely remembered seeing an inn on the maps Dulfish had given him. If he was correct, there was one directly before the bridge to the city. He trekked around the city, moving away from the mass of well traveled roads on the other side. If he was correct, he would be approaching the inn from behind, reducing his visibility. He arrived at the Wawnet Inn shortly before sundown. Thankfully neither beast nor bandit had bothered him on his way.

He approached the inn from the back, his guess having been correct. As the rounded the corner to approach the entrance, he bumped into an Imperial soldier in shining steel armor. "My apologies..." he grumbled, keeping his eyes pinned to the ground.

The guard remained standing in the doorway, blocking the Orc's path. "Stop, citizen. State your business."

Dammit, thought Mul, how could he have recognized me? He looked up at the guard, who stared at him blankly. There was no light of recognition in his eyes, just an instinctive suspicion. His mind raced, this could be the solution to his problems. "Actually, I was hoping you could help me. My mother isn't feeling well, she's sitting in the shade behind the inn. I'm tired from our travels and am unable to carry her in myself."

The Imperial snorted derisively. "Your mother is none of my concern. Then again, I could use another round of mead…"

Mul smiled. "Sure, friend! Anything for a fellow soldier!" He led the hapless Imperial around to the back of the inn, safely hidden away from the road. The soldier looked around nervously.

'What is this, Orc? I'll have you clapped in irons if you don't…." His words were cut short as Mul wrapped his massive hand around his throat. His fingers nearly touched behind his neck.

The Imperial gurgled in protest, reaching for his sword. Mul grabbed the pommel with his free hand just as the guard reached it with his own. The Orc tightened his grip, feeling bones crack as he ripped the blade from its scabbard. He lifted the guard off the ground, slowly sliding the sword between the bones of his neck. He savored the moment as the light in the guard's eyes went out. He dismissively tossed the lifeless body to the ground before removing his weapons, armor, and misbegotten septims.

Mul donned the Imperial's gear, dragging his body into a nearby stream running from Lake Rumare. The fittings inside the armor had to be loosened to their maximum length, compromising some of the armor's integrity. It would serve his purposes until he could get a set of real Orcish armor.

"Fair enough," he muttered, taking a few practice swings with his new sword. Blades weren't his weapons of choice, but he was more than proficient with them. All types of combat had been drilled into his head since birth, as was only natural for the son of a warlord. He made his way back up the hill, hoping to avoid any more guards who might be more aware of his appearance. He may look out of place, but no citizen would dare challenge the authenticity of an Imperial soldier. If he ran into another legionnaire, however, that could be a different story.

Mul managed to slip into the inn, this time without being noticed. He swung the flimsy door open, trying his best to look confident. Sauntering up to the bar with all of the confidence to be expected of an Imperial soldier, he ordered enough food to keep him well fed on his way to Cheydinhal. Luckily, the bartender wasn't paying attention to her actions, monotonously scraping together the Orc's supplies. "I'll take a bed, too." he growled.

The Elven woman at the bar grunted an affirmative, motioning for him to pay. "That'll be 30 septims, sir". Mul handed over the bag of septims he had taken off the guard.

"Keep the change," he muttered. He scooped up his armload of food and drink, walking up to his room to prepare for his journey.

AN: Thanks for the continued support, everybody! It's definitely different to have an audience for my own work as opposed to co-authoring someone else's story. As always, reviews and PMs are much appreciated, and I'll see y'all next Sunday!


	4. Chapter 4: The Gilded Path

Mul awoke in the gray hours before dawn in an attempt to avoid the morning rush of travelers on the road to Cheydinhal. The horse stables were just outside the gates to the Imperial City, so he couldn't risk purchasing a mount: he'd have to make his way on foot. He rose to his feet, putting on his pilfered set of Imperial armor. He slid the steel sword into its scabbard, placing his other supplies into his backpack. He was surprised to find that the soldier didn't have any type of backpack or other bag on him, so he had fashioned one the night before from an old potato sack and a roll of twine.

He walked down the stairs and straight out the door, having already paid his boarding fees. Striding towards the tall sign post outside the inn, he stopped for a moment to reorient himself with the layout of Cyrodiil. Cheydinhal was due east of the Imperial City, and at least an 12-hour walk if he didn't stop to eat, not to mention any delays due to run-ins with the local fauna.

This got him worrying about Kresh yet again. What if he hadn't escaped the Emperor and his guards? He could have easily spilled the secret to their plan. Kresh was one of the strongest Orcs Mul knew, as well as his most trusted Lieutenant, but no one could stand up to an Imperial torturer for this long. But there was no sense in turning these thoughts over in his head: either Kresh would be with Dulfish when Mul arrived or he wouldn't.

Mul began the long walk towards Cheydinhal. He proceeded unmolested for several hours before coming upon a frightened-looking Khajiit in leather armor. Always eager to help another beast-folk, he approached the cat with his palms out in front of him. "Greetings, friend. Is everything alright?"

The Khajiit surveyed him with beady eyes. He beckoned to him with one finger, drawing the Orc closer. As Mul drew near to hear the his words, he felt the familiar coldness of a dagger at his throat. "That's close enough. What've you got in your coinpurse?"

Mul froze, mentally kicking himself for letting his guard down. "Calm down, now. No one needs to get hurt." The Khajiit began to relax as Mul reached for his back pack. Suddenly, Mul spun to the left, grabbing the pommel of the highwayman's dagger with his left hand. As the would-be robber panicked, he attempted to jerk the weapon away from the lightning-fast Orc, who responded by flipping his wrist over and jamming the blade between the Khajiit's ribs.

He collapsed in a heap, blood trickling from his mouth. As he rolled onto his stomach in an attempt to crawl to safety, Mul stomped on his neck with a wet crunch, crushing his spine. "Damn highwaymen," he muttered, patting the cat down for any useful items. He found nothing save a few septims, which he added to his coinpurse.

The rest of his journey was relatively uneventful, exempting a tense staredown with a wandering wolf. The massive creature smelled the musk emanating from the towering Orc and quickly decided to find easier prey.

Cheydinhal crested over the horizon, framed by the setting sun. The large gates loomed over Mul as he cautiously approached the guard who was in charge of entrance to the city. The Imperial guard looked him over, obviously suspicious of the armor. It made his blood boil to simply stand there, but every guard in the city had been paid off by the Orum Gang. They certainly wouldn't take kindly to him killing one of their "investments". Once the guard gave him the go-ahead nod, Mul stepped through the wooden gates of Cheydinhal, ready to begin rebuilding his forces for another assault on the Empire.

AN: Thanks a ton for all of the views, reviews, and PM's! Sorry for the shorter chapter this week, but I had to get a bit of transition in here before all of the action. As far as the content of this chapter specifically, I love the chance to include detailed martial arts in my stories (as well as some nice Orcish historical accuracy!) Thanks again, and I'll see y'all next Sunday.


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